


for you, i’ll bloody my hands

by ayuminb



Series: Jonsa Kink Week [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book Canon Ages, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Lady Escapes with Nymeria, Alternate Universe - Post ADWD Timeline, Alternate Universe - Robb Lives, Ambiguous Sansa Stark, Blood Kink, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Jonsa Kink Week, Post-Battle Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 11:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13588686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: She likes to see him bleed as much he likes to make their enemies bleed.





	for you, i’ll bloody my hands

She finds him after that first battle – the first of _many_.

 

They'd finally retaken Winterfell, after months spent traveling the North, rallying the banners. What remains of their forces on this side of The Neck, while Robb leads the bulk of them in razing the Westerlands – seeking _revenge_. Their brother, that believes them all dead, should be receiving a raven soon. Of their success – his sisters' and brother's success in reclaiming their home.

 

But that is a thought for later. _Now_ – now Sansa follows him to his old chambers, needing to be near. Like she’s been since reuniting at Castle Black, always near, letting his presence comfort her as only Arya and Lady do now, only… _differently_. Since the very moment he’d wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off the ground with the strength of his embrace, whispering her name right into her neck—that memory still makes her shiver. The rumble of his voice as he called her name, then, how still makes her tremble when he calls her _now_.

 

"Sansa."

 

She’d caught naught but a glimpse of him during the gruesome battle, beating up the man who’d dared claim himself the Lord of Winterfell while their brother waged war against the Lannisters in the South to death. He’d been furious and relentless and Sansa knows most of that had been due to the rumors that had reached Jon’s ears before the brothers of the Night’s Watch betrayed him. Rumors about Arya. Then he’d stood up and let the wildlings that chose to follow him clean up the rest. Then he’d turned around, made sure she and Arya were there, before giving out more orders to what remained of the household, to prepare their chambers – and he’d walked away.

 

And here she stands, wavering at the doors of his chambers, Lady butting her head against her shoulder. Jon – he turns slowly to look at her, hands pausing in unlacing his doublet. He’s sweaty and bloody and with bits of gore still stuck to his exhausted body. Sansa worries he’s severly hurt, though he doesn’t _look_ in pain; then she worries he might not be hurt _enough_ , because then – then she won’t be able to _stop_ herself. This pull that confuses her, _thrills her_ and leaves her in a heady state every time she entertains the idea of indulging it.

 

Like now.

 

Sansa hesitates only a second before stepping into his chambers. Lady waits at the threshold, her direwolf rarely leaves her side since reuniting with her; same as Ghost, always shadowing Jon’s steps since his death and resurrection. They leave them alone now, Ghost getting up slowly from his place on Jon’s bed and walking out; not far, they settle just outside the wooden doors. Sansa takes a deep breath before closing them, then turns back around to face Jon.

 

His look is almost that of a man starving.

 

“You should leave,” he says, but does not stop her approach; his hands twitch at his side. “Sansa.”

 

“No.”

 

She is well beyond the point of lying to herself, of denying – this longing for Jon, so she stops. She’s tired of the war raging within her mind; in an entirely bold move, she pulls his doublet off him, pushes it down his arms and onto the floor, then his shirt and finally gets a clear view of his well-toned chest – the blood, it had managed to seep through his clothes. There, among purplish bruises and the gore that’d slipped under his shirt, she can see he had acquired an injury. _Painful_ to look at, Sansa cannot understand how it doesn’t bother him. Jon, though, lately it’s as if very little truly bothered him. Except when it comes to _her_ , to their family.

 

When her fingers wander close to the bleeding gash on his side, much too close, he snaps into action, seizing her hand and trapping it against his ribs. His skin is hot, or perhaps she’s just _cold_ ; nowadays it’s hard to say.

 

“I don’t want to get blood on you.”

 

There’s something dark lurking under the soft whisper of his words, a _warning_. The low rumbling piercing her senses, sending heat spiraling throughout her body. Truly, madness must’ve taken over her, otherwise she’s no other explanation for this sudden bout of defiance that propels her to snatch her hand back and place it over his wound, letting the blood seep through her splayed fingers. A part of her knows she should leave, lest something else were to happen; another part, the bigger part, actually wants it to happen. Desperately. Sansa is mesmerized by the stark contrast of his blood against her pale skin, how it feels as it runs burning paths over her hand and down her wrist; she presses harder, watches him shudder, hears him _growl_ , yet isn’t exactly expecting him to push her up against the wall near his bed.

 

There’s sweat and blood and dirt and gore all over his bare chest and arms and back and once, _once upon a time_ , Sansa would’ve recoiled in disgust but now. _Now_ she grabs the back of his neck with her free hand, pulls him into a kiss that might scatter his thoughts is she tries hard enough, she thinks. Now – she presses tighter into him not caring about the state of her gown as it rubs against his skin. Lets the desire consume her, all-encompassing, feels the heat pool between her legs and _whimpers_.

 

Jon hisses as he breaks the kiss, licks along her jaw until his lips brush the shell of her hear; he growls. “This isn’t right, _sister_.”

 

“ _Half_ -sister,” she corrects, as if that would make this any better, any less of a sin.

 

He pulls away only enough to fumble with her skirts— _good_ , she doesn’t think she would’ve been able to say the words, to urge him _along_ —tugging them up until they’re bunched around her hips. And then he hoists her up, encourages to wrap her legs around his waist and oh, _right there_ , feeling him hard between her legs and pressed _closely_ , that’s a she’s wanted now.

 

Sansa moans a little louder with every roll of his hips, feels a little less in control as the tension builds. _And we’re not, we’re not—oh_. The blood of his wound runs down her leg, where the inside of her thigh it’s pressed to it; it shouldn’t, _shouldn’t_ excite her so, but still her own blood hums at the sight, the _feel_ of it. Her hand drags up his side, over his ribs and chest, leaving a trail of red in its wake.

 

Then a jolt of pleasure sweeps over her, and she whimpers. “Jon.”

 

He groans, deep in his throat and strokes her folds once more before delving his fingers inside her. “Fuck, Sansa.”

 

They make a mess of their remaining clothes, blood and dirt staining every piece of fabric they touch, smearing on their skin—she gasps, digs her nails into his shoulders and Jon groans as he pushes, pushes, _pushes_ until he’s fully sheathed. There’s a little bit of pain, as she’s been told there would be the first time, but mostly indescribable pleasure – and that isn’t something she’s been told about. Nor is the feel of being stretched, the intensity of being _full_. And then Jon moves, shallow thrusts, slow, then going a little faster and soon she’s been pressed against the wall supporting most of her weight – another thrust, his cock goes deeper and harder and _faster, Jon, Jon, Jon_.

 

“This isn’t right,” he whispers again, and she knows this. “ _Sansa_ …”

 

Gods, she _knows_ – but when Jon licks at her fingers before leaning in for a kiss, the taste of his _blood_ lingering in her tongue, well. Sansa really, really, _really_ doesn’t care.

**Author's Note:**

> the second paragraph won't make much sense, because there's like a multichap worth of info missing. this is essentially just a spin-off of another fic i've got in progress, that's not posted yet. but, bear with me.


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